‘Henri will tell you what I have just said, but to grease the elevator operator’s memory you will need much more. 2000 at least.’
A bargain, then. He was half-way down the narrow staircase when she hesitantly called after him. ‘Monsieur, has Mademoiselle Theleme been detained? It … it is only that she could not possibly be involved. You see, she has a little boy who is the light of her life. She would do nothing to endanger him. A mother’s love is beyond all loves. This I know though the heart, it has been broken now for more than forty years.’
‘She’s okay. She’s in good hands. My partner’s looking after her.’
The suit was very much in vogue, yet sensible, thought St-Cyr. Four stag-horn buttons complemented the finely woven, soft, grey-blue mohair, while a chain of gold links caused the jacket to flare over the hips, emphasizing the slender waist and long and shapely legs beneath the midcalf-length skirt.
The ribbing of the wool ran the length of Mademoiselle Theleme. The high-heeled shoes were of glossy blue leather – Italian and pre-war but perfectly kept.
A woman, then, who knew how to dress and was proud of it, even to following his scrutiny, not denying herself that little pleasure yet keeping her mind acutely alert to everything else.
It was disconcerting to have to question her in front of Engelmann while the Generalmajor flitted nervously about in the background, uncertain still of her responses and of where things were heading.
Hans Wehrle definitely didn’t like the attention he was getting but that could simply mean he understood only too well the sort of things that could happen. Ruefully St-Cyr wished his partner was with them, but Hermann had chosen to forget about the coffee and was, no doubt, engaged in other matters.
‘So tell me, please, about the Gypsy?’
She shrugged. ‘I know nothing of gypsies. Who cares about them?’ She tossed a dismissive hand. ‘They’ve all been arrested and sent away, haven’t they? Pah! We don’t see any of those people any more and if we did, we would have to report them.’
Or worry that they were working for the Occupier – he could see her thinking this and acknowledged it with a curt nod. Safe … she had been so very safe and cautious in what she had said.
‘But you sing at two of the gypsy places?’ he hazarded.
‘Fiercely loyal White Russians, Czech and Hungarian balalaika and fiddle players. Sentimental songs that have been around for ages. They aren’t real gypsies. Oh mein Gott, Inspektor, they couldn’t be, could they?’
And the Occupier does enjoy slumming from club to club until forced to leave before curfew or risk being locked in for the rest of the night, getting drunker and drunker until the sentimental tears came, or sleep.
‘I have a friend who sings,’ he offered and she knew he was watching her closely for the slightest suggestion of alarm. ‘A chanteuse. The Club Mirage.’
‘That’s nice. It’s over in Montparnasse, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. The rue Delambre and eight hundred war-weary men a night. It’s quite a crowd.’
‘But a living, I think,’ she said so softly her voice was like a caress.
‘I thought, perhaps, you might have met. You wear the same perfume. Mirage.’
She didn’t drop her eyes or give a hint of disquietude but steadily returned his gaze. ‘It’s very expensive. A general gave it to me. Not Hans, another.’
‘And you’ve not met her?’
‘No. No, six nights a week allows too little time to socialize. I’ve a son, also, and whatever free time I have is devoted entirely to him.’
‘But not on evenings like this.’
Touche, was that it? she wondered, cursing his questions but giving no hint of this. Herr Engelmann had expectantly sat up at the exchange. Hans had stopped fiddling about and was waiting anxiously for her response … ‘My son understands that occasionally his mother must visit with a friend for an hour or two.’
‘But he isn’t aware of the nature of those visits?’
And just what do you think was the nature of this visit? she wanted to demand of him but looked, instead, into the distance, perhaps to the welcome of a long-lost camp-fire.
‘My Jani understands that sometimes mummy has to sing at private dinner parties and that she cannot always refuse.’
Not these days.
Her breath was held for just a split second. St-Cyr knew that tough exterior had at last been truly dented but she recovered so quickly, he had nothing but admiration for her.
Herr Max’s scrutiny was now hard and penetrating. Hans Wehrle found himself lost in doubt and forced to sit down.
‘These private dinner parties, Inspector …’ grunted Engelmann sourly.
‘It’s Chief Inspector.’
‘If you insist.’
‘I do.’
There was a nod and then the firmness of, ‘Please ask her to tell us about them. The most recent, I think.’
‘Hans, is this necessary?’
The look she gave was swift, hard and damning.
‘Nana, I can do nothing. It’s up to them. Please try to understand it’s not me who has been robbed but the Reich.’
Engelmann cleared his throat and, focusing on the gaping maw of the safe, let her have it. ‘Nothing you may well know, Fraulein, but someone made the Gypsy aware of the contents and the vulnerability of that safe, and someone alerted the authorities not only to a robbery by him but …’ He paused. ‘… also the timing of it. Not quite, however, thus his apprehension has unfortunately eluded us for the moment.’
There was dust everywhere, still the stench of bitter almonds, of nitroglycerine.
‘Nana, mein Gott, don’t be so stubborn. Tell them!’ leapt Wehrle.
She shrugged. ‘It was nothing – how could it have been? The villa is mine but it has been requisitioned for the duration, so I had the opportunity to see at first hand if it was being properly cared for. One does wonder, isn’t that so? And, yes, many of the guests were in uniform – the men, that is. And, yes, I took some of my little orchestra with me and we sang a few “gypsy” songs for them.’
‘When?’ breathed Hermann who had slid so quietly into the room none had noticed him and all wondered how long he’d been there.
‘Last Monday.’
A week ago … ‘SS, Gestapo and friends of friends?’ he asked, pleasantly enough.
‘Collaborators, yes. Some of the big boys.’
‘In the butter-eggs-and-cheese racket?’ went on Kohler.
The black market. ‘Perhaps. I really wouldn’t know about those types.’
‘The rue Lauriston?’ he asked.
The French Gestapo. ‘Yes, perhaps those also.’
The Gypsy had been seen in Tours heading for Paris at 1030 hours, 14 January. The dinner party had been on the eleventh. ‘Where’s the villa?’ he demanded.
‘In Saint-Cloud.’
‘Pas mal, pas mal, mademoiselle. Saved up your sous, did you, to buy it?’
‘Yes!’
‘Present address?’
‘It’s on my papers.’
‘Just give it to me.’
‘Above the Club Monseigneur, on the rue d’Amsterdam.’
The quartier de l’Europe and perhaps the dullest, noisiest, ugliest of neighbourhoods in Paris. ‘That’s quite a comedown.’
‘But a lot closer to work.’
‘Were there any other singers present at the dinner party?’
Ah maudit! why could he not have left it alone? ‘No. No, there were no others. Not that I knew of.’
Kohler saw her throw him a look so poignant he winced and felt a fool. There had been others, and now she knew he was as aware of it as she and so was everyone else. ‘The coffee’s here,’ he said. ‘I thought a little brandy might help, Herr Max, and found they had a bottle of Asbach Uralt rucked away for connoisseurs like ourselves. There’s some Beck’s Bier in case the dust has made you really thirsty.’